lord, calling away
Tusher, bade him come to the oak parlour and have a pipe. The doctor made
a low bow to her ladyship (of which salaams he was profuse), and walked
off on his creaking square-toes after his patron.

When the lady and the young man were alone, there was a silence of some
moments, during which he stood at the fire, looking rather vacantly at the
dying embers, whilst her ladyship busied herself with her tambour-frame
and needles.

"I am sorry," she said, after a pause, in a hard, dry voice,--"I _repeat_ I
am sorry that I showed myself so ungrateful for the safety of my son. It
was not at all my wish that you should leave us, I am sure, unless you
found pleasure elsewhere. But you must perceive, Mr. Esmond, that at your
age, and with your tastes, it is impossible that you can continue to stay
upon the intimate footing in which you have been in this family. You have
wished to go to the University, and I think 'tis quite as well that you
should be sent thither. I did not press this matter, thinking you a child,
as you are, indeed, in years--quite a child; and I should never have
thought of treating you otherwise until--until these _circumstances_ came
to light. And I shall beg my lord to dispatch you as quick as possible:
and will go on with Frank's learning as well as I can (I owe my father
thanks for a little grounding, and you, I'm sure, for much that you have
taught me),--and--and I wish you a good night, Mr. Esmond."

And with this she dropped a stately curtsy, and, taking her candle, went
away through the tapestry door, which led to her apartments. Esmond stood
by the fireplace, blankly staring after her. Indeed, he scarce seemed to
see until she was gone; and then her image was impressed upon him, and
remained for ever fixed upon his memory. He saw her retreating, the taper
lighting up her marble face, her scarlet lip quivering, and her shining
golden hair. He went to his own room, and to bed, where he tried to read,
as his custom was; but he never knew what he was reading until afterwards
he remembered the appearance of the letters of the book (it was in
Montaigne's _Essays_), and the events of the day passed before him--that
is, of the last hour of the day; for as for the morning, and the poor
milkmaid yonder, he never so much as once thought. And he could not get to
sleep until daylight, and woke with a violent headache, and quite
unrefreshed.

He had brought the contagion with him from the "Thr